


It wasn't love...

by oldenuf2nb



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble, Explicit Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-03
Updated: 2007-07-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 16:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10812594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldenuf2nb/pseuds/oldenuf2nb
Summary: It wasn't love. It wasn't...





	It wasn't love...

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

It wasn't love. It wasn't.

 

There were no messy emotions muddying the waters, no sentimentality. No gentleness.

 

It was fucking.

 

That's all. Just fucking. It could have been anyone; it wouldn't have mattered. It was just a chance to burn off some of this never-ending, soul-destroying, caustic, acid anger. The anger he woke with, the anger he fought with, the anger that was the only thing that kept him from slipping down the slippery slope into despair. The anger that poisoned every good thing or feeling he'd ever had, leaving him held together by nothing but the rage.

 

He didn't need love; not anymore. Not now. It would only weaken him. If he thought about those he'd loved? Loved, and lost? Sirius, Dumbledore....Ginny... Ron.... Oh, God. No, no, he couldn't go there. All it did was remind him that once he'd been human, and he couldn't afford to be, not any longer. Now, he needed to be nothing more than a killing machine, a weapon with a wand.

 

Hence, not love. Fucking … and who better to be the receptacle of his bitterness than the one person he'd hated from the very beginning? He was so bloody willing, the twisted fuck. He was always there, after every raid, every murder, every vision of hell so complete that he still saw it when his eyes were closed, still smelled it days later, still tasted the mist of blood in the air. He was there, with his white hands and his soft lips, and the silvery hair that felt like silk and the skin that looked like alabaster and the silvery eyes that looked up into his when he was on his knees, and the seductive voice that lured him down from the edge time and time again...

 

It wasn't love. It wasn't. It wasn't. It couldn't be...


End file.
